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I… am an actor. Watson… is not. Well, that's not entirely accurate. I should say, "He is not a performer." Unlike me, Watson gets stage-fright.
Watson is adorable when he gets stage-fright. His eyes widen, his breathe quickens, he fidgets, and he tries so hard to please. He's like a blushing virgin. I do sometimes wonder if he is the same in the bedroom. I would be lying if I said I never wanted to find out for myself, which I do; lie that is.
I'm an actor after all. I lie all the time. All for him.
I gave up everything for him. My career (such as it was), my habits (sort of), and my name (certainly) all to become his fantasy. His fantasy man: Sherlock Holmes. Clever, tall, debonair, focused, honest, heroic Holmes.
He wants Sherlock Holmes, not Reginald Kincaid. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Do I want him to like the true me or the illusion? I look at the pages he writes, the illustrations that come with them and… I almost wish I was that man. Sherlock Holmes. Alas, I am not.
But… I AM and actor after all. I can be whomever I want. I can be that for him. I WANT to be that for him and that's just dandy.